The only vegetable that can make you cry
by meldahlie
Summary: He stands outside a door, afraid to enter... Stannis Baratheon, Storm's End, Robert's Rebellion.


_A/N: This is a sequel to congratsyou'vegrownasoul's 'All along the watchtower', but I hope it will also make sense as a stand-alone. It's sappy? Yeah, well, it's Christmas...!  
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Stannis Baratheon pauses at the entrance to Renly's chamber. The door is not quite shut – but he cannot bring himself to open it. Even the steaming warmth from the bowl of herring and onion broth he has insisted on bringing up to Renly himself is not enough to fight the sudden chill of fear.

How many times in the last two months has he paused here, afraid to enter and find no-one left inside? To walk the city walls and look at the Tyrells beyond has taken less force of will than coming to say good night to Renly. And how many times in the last two months has he paused here, afraid to enter and find someone was still inside? A pair of dark, dulled eyes in a pale, skull-thin face that rose slightly off its pillows each time, to ask in a hoarse whisper: "Any news?"

Renly has seemed a little thinner, a littler duller each time Stannis has had to answer "Nothing yet."

And now – and now there is news – food – real food – and he cannot open that door. The wild, almost delirious excitement of food had fetched out the whole garrison, brought even Maester Cressen shuffling from his bed – but not Renly. What if...?

No! 'What if-?' is a question a garrison commander should never, ever ask! Even starving under siege – Stannis shoves the door before him sharply open.

There is a small, feeble noise in the room: that of a small child crying in his sleep. Stannis has always felt awkward, helpless in the face of children's tears, any children, from Renly to the kitchen wench's brat with a skinned knee; felt there should be some better response than Robert's brightly scornful dismissal of them, but not knowing what. Not knowing makes him dread them, but right now he does not think he has ever, ever been more thankful, not even when he laid his hands on that first onion.

He steals across the room. Close beside the bed, he can hear the words of Renly's sleep-loosened sobs. _"__Mother... mother... hungry..."_

Stannis puts the bowl of broth down on the chest beside the bed, close enough that the smell should reach Renly, but nowhere near the edge. They still cannot afford to waste food – and Stannis, with only a few gulps of broth inside him is afraid that if it was spilled, he might get down and lick the floor like a dog. He kneels beside the bed, takes the one thin hand that pokes out of the ragged blankets.

"Renly... Renly...!" The hand seems even thinner than he remembered from yesterday, a bird-like claw he dare not squeeze as the bones grate against his own – but he's not sure how tightly he could manage to squeeze anything now. It's only partly on purpose that his hand shakes Renly's to waken him.

No, Renly does not want a hand to sit up. No, Renly does not want to know how the Tyrells' stranglehold on them has been run. No, Renly does not want any explanations at all for this mid-night awakening. With a focus on the present beside aught else that would do credit to Robert (and a stubborn determination like the garrison commander) Renly wants the bowl and the spoon and the BROTH!

Stannis watches it vanish, and the listlessness in Renly's eyes with it. The first makes his own mouth water; the other-?

Renly puts the spoon back in the polished bowl with a clatter, and meets his brother's gaze with a veritable grin. "I usedn't to like onions," he announces. "They make your eyes water. Fruit's nicer for midnight feasts – apples, peaches – like we used to have."

Like we used to have. Tonight's 'feast' is a far cry from those grand occasions Renly barely remembers, but Stannis thinks that on his part, he'll make do with this one for now. And Renly, burrowing back down into his blankets, is right – like Robert always used to be, infuriatingly, at that age, but that doesn't matter now. He reaches out, and the two no-longer-quite-starving brothers' hands clasp 'good night' – a really good night.

Onions – they make your eyes water.


End file.
